The Divine and the Unerring
by adjourn
Summary: Stuck in Skyrim with the power of console commands at her fingertips, the newly renamed Aule is ready for an adventure. Too bad for Skyrim that she's a complete asshole. OC
1. the birth of a god

Hi! So I wrote this because it just wouldn't get out of my head. Not sure if I'll continue it, but if I do, expect updates to be sporadic. So...have this prologue for now, and we'll see if chapter 1 ever happens. Hope you enjoy, and please review! I'd love some feedback.

Premise: Girl falls into Skyrim with use of console commands. Chaos ensues.

* * *

"Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god."

-Jean Rostand, _Thoughts of a Biologist_

...

PROLOGUE

_the birth of a god_

...

Ulfric Stormcloak laid unmoving, his corpse frigid as the surrounding winter. Snow fell lightly upon his golden locks, crowning his hair in a wreath of white.

Galmar Stone-Fist, slumped against the wall of the Palace of the Kings, feebly attempted to remove the sword lodged in his abdomen.

Ysarald Thrice-Pierced's eyes focused on the figure laughing over Ulfric's body, fury hot as dragon-fire burning through his veins.

And these words echoed through the ancient halls of the Palace of the Kings:

"_Hah! _Essential NPC myass!"

...

SOME DAYS PRIOR

Scouts-Many-Marshes paused as he lifted another crate destined for the Northern Maiden, a distinct shape in the water catching his attention. He narrowed his eyes, which quickly widened when he realized exactly what was floating on the icy river: a human lying unconscious on some large, rectangular object. Without really thinking about it, he leapt into the water, intent on rescuing the possibly dead human.

"What do you think you're doing?" yelled Suvaris Atheron, nearly dropping her logbook in shock. "Get out of the water, you crazy lizard!"

Scouts-Many-Marshes paid her no heed, swimming toward the human with a speed and grace that only an Argonian can manage. He pushed the unfamiliar object the human female laid upon toward the docks with ease and climbed up on the pier, then lifted the apparently Nord girl from the smooth, buoyant item and checked her for a pulse.

A solid heartbeat thrummed under the flesh of her warm neck. She was alive. Scouts-Many-Marshes felt vast relief at the girl's survival, for all that she was a stranger. He had already witnessed far too many succumb to the merciless cold of this land.

"What exactly did you drag in here, lizard?" Suvaris sneered. The expression quickly disappeared from her features when she saw the limp human in his arms, replaced by a wary look. "Is she alive?"

"She lives," he confirmed.

"What's all the commotion over here?" said a guard who had wandered over. Scouts-Many-Marshes could not see his face under the mask, but imagined he must have looked surprised. "Who in Talos' name is this?"

"I do not know. I found her in the water," replied Scouts-Many-Marshes. "She is alive, though, and does not seem to be injured." Or cold, he thought. How odd. He knew Nords were naturally resistant to the cold, but this was unprecedented. Unless she hadn't been floating in the river for too long...

The guard started suddenly and hastily took the girl from Scouts-Many Marshes' arms, likely realizing that he had allowed a Nord to be saved and held by a lowly Argonian. Scouts-Many-Marshes did not take offense. It was just the way of things.

"I'll take her from here," the guard said roughly, and began a swift pace to the steps leading into Windhelm.

Scouts-Many-Marshes looked on at the seemingly impenetrable city walls and wondered if the girl would be informed of her Argonian rescuer.

"Get back to work," Suvaris ordered, scribbling in her logbook.

...

"Divines!" cried Viola Giordano, scurrying over to the guard. "Who is that?"

"She was found floating in the river by the docks," he said curtly, having no patience to deal with the old woman's nosiness. "Excuse me, ma'am. I must get her to the Palace immediately."

"The Palace? You ought to bring her to Candlehearth. The poor thing might freeze to death in such little clothing!" Viola insisted. And it was true, for the girl — who to the guard, was more a young woman — was wearing scandalously little: the remains of a pair of vibrantly-colored trousers, cut to above mid-thigh, and a dark, thin shirt. "I'll ask Jora to come over, take a look at her."

That did seem like a reasonable plan, but the guard was a suspicious sort, and he thought that a girl floating down the river dressed in strange clothes and rescued by an Argonian was very suspicious, and he had it in his mind that she might be a Legion spy. Although, she was tall enough to be a Nord, and she did not have the sharper features of an Imperial, but the dark hair and somewhat tanned skin were distinctly so. And not all Imperials were Legionnaires, and perhaps she wasn't even an Imperial after all, but it never hurt to be safe. Besides, there were any number of other things she could be: a Dark Brotherhood assassin, a thief with the Guild (though they hadn't been heard from in a while).

"I don't think that's a good idea, ma'am," said the guard, attempting to be polite despite his agitation at the old woman's interference. "If you'll excuse me, I really must head to the Palace."

"Young man, I respect the work you do in protecting this city, but I simply cannot in good conscience allow you to present this young lady in front of the Jarl when she's in such a state!" Viola protested, and her lips sent in a determined line so that the wrinkles around her mouth deepened.

"The state she is in is not my concern," snapped the guard, losing his patience. "She could be a Legion spy, and I will not compromise—"

"Oh, hush! The poor thing is not a spy," Viola said. "By the Nine, you soldier-types are all batty!"

"I do not believe _we _are the batty ones, _ma'am_," the guard said.

It was at about this moment that the young woman in his arms woke up and was so startled at the sudden, bitter cold and the sensation of being carried that she tumbled out of the guard's arms.

"Now look what you've caused," admonished Viola. The guard ignored the old woman and bent down to address the young one instead.

"Who are you? What's going on? Where am I?" the bewildered girl-of-questionable-race questioned, shivering, whether from fear or cold unclear.

"You are in Windhelm, citizen," said the guard, attempting to soften a bit. He did not succeed, for he was still quite irritable from his disagreement with Viola, and instead sounded rather brusque. The young woman flinched, eyeing the sword strapped to his waist with extreme apprehension. "A worker rescued you from the frigid waters of the White River."

"Windhelm?" repeated the woman dubiously. "Really? Like, with Ulfric Stormcloak and everything?"

"Indeed," said the guard stiffly, though he was not quite sure what she meant by "everything."

"That's impossible," she said flatly, and then glanced around the at the stone walls and the falling snow. "Impossible. Where am I?" she demanded, a bit hysterically this time.

"You really are in Windhelm, dearie," Viola said gently. "Are you a long way from home?"

"A long way is one way of putting of it," the woman scoffed. She picked herself up on shaky legs and wrapped her arms around herself. "Right, I'm freezing, so. I'm going to head to...Candlehearth."

"I'm afraid you have to come with me first," the guard said, grabbing her arm before she could run off. This girl was getting more suspicious by the second. "I need to take you to see the Jarl. We can't have random strangers wandering about the city, you see."

She looked at the gloved hand wrapped around her bicep disbelievingly. "This is a dream. Or a hallucination. You're not real," she said.

Clearly, she was a lunatic, decided the guard. And they couldn't have those running around the city. Or was this some elaborate cover-up for an assassination? A fake identity, pretending to be an innocent, confused straggler to start a new life and infiltrate Stormcloak ranks? Could be any of those, thought the guard.

"Just come with me," he said imperiously, now thoroughly convinced of the young woman's guilt. "The Jarl will decide what to do with you."

"Don't be so hard on her," said Viola, frowning. Her sly Imperial eyes seemed hungry for gossip, amd the guard felt an overwhelming frustration with her presence.

"Leave!" the guard barked at her, placing his free hand threateningly on his sword. "This is now official Stormcloak business. Any who interfere will face the consequences of the law."

Viola recoiled in half-shock, half-fear. She sniffed haughtily to disguise her distress and sputtered, "Why, I never!" before hastily retreating.

The guard tightened his grip around the young woman's arm and began a furious pace to the Palace of the Kings.

"You can't just drag me about! I don't want to see Ulfric!" she protested vehemently. "This is my goddamn dream! I don't want to meet that stupid bastard!"

The guard ignored the urge to smack her.

"Unless I get to kill him. Then that would be a great dream."

This time, he didn't. He stopped abruptly, releasing her arm and whirling around, his palm striking her cheek with a resounding _slap._ Her head whipped to the side and her entire body followed, crumpling on the stone steps.

"Shit! You stupid asshole, what was that for?"she yelled, tears forming in her eyes. The absent thought that they were icy blue, and she was maybe a Nord-Imperial mix, drifted through the guard's mind amidst a sharp spike of anger.

"An Imperial supporter should be more watchful of her tongue, lest it be cut out," he spat acerbically. He then yanked her up harshly by the arm, taking vindictive pleasure in the pained noise she made at his cruel grip. "You are by far the worst spy, or assassin, or whatever it is that you are, I have ever met."

She remained quiet, glaring at him with fury painted on her features. It was nothing the guard hadn't seen before, and he began walking to the Palace entrance. She followed silently, stewing in her anger. The guard hoped she would rot in the dungeons for her words against Jarl Ulfric.

...

Ulfric Stormcloak watched the bruised girl in front of him smolder under his heavy stare, silently assessing her. The guard who had brought her in was convinced that she was likely a spy, assassin or thief, and up to no good, but Ulfric did not see it—not in her eyes, or her posture, or her fidgeting hands, and certainly not in the flimsy clothes she was dressed in. What Ulfric did see, however, was an intense dislike for him that marred her features with a disgusted scowl.

"What is your purpose in my city?" he said slowly, leisurely, almost uncaring. _You are nothing_, the current of his powerful voice whispered, _you are beneath me._

"Nothing. I just want to get out of this goddamned place. Why the fuck I would dream about coming here, of all places, is a real mystery to me," she spat acerbically.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes. "You will show respect to the noble city of Windhelm, girl," he said strictly. "Ysgramor himself constructed these walls, as a testament to the power of Men."

"No way. This place is a racist hellhole," she said, glaring at him. "And you're just as much of an asshole in dreams as you are in the game. No surprise there."

He felt no true anger at her derogatory remarks, for she was a ragged girl and he was a king, but he was a bit bemused at her talk of dreams and games. Of course, he did not express his puzzlement to her, instead turning to address the guard.

"Why does she speak of such queer matters?" said Ulfric.

"I do not know, Jarl Ulfric," the guard said promptly, his back ramrod straight and voice a bit high with nerves. "She has spoken of being in a dream or a hallucination. I suspect she is not quite right in the head, or putting on an act as a spy," suggested the guard, again.

The girl seemed perfectly sane to him, but Ulfric had dealt with the matter long enough. He had a war to run, and had dallied about on his throne for too long already.

"Do you feel she is a threat to our city, or our cause?" Ulfric asked.

"Yes, my Jarl," the guard replied firmly. "She said herself that she wished to take your life."

Ulfric doubted that this slip of a girl could even touch him before he had separated her head from her body, much less kill him, but he supposed that it was her intent that mattered.

"Take her to the dungeons," Ulfric said, dismissing the guard with a wave of his hand. "There will be no danger in my city."

The guard nodded and said resolutely, "Of course, my Jarl!"

Moments later, the girl had disappeared into the dungeons of the Palace of the Kings. Ulfric very nearly forgot about the entire happening, so caught up with the war as he was, and the urgent matter of tracking down the Dragonborn, who'd been called by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar not two days ago, the power of their Thu'um washing over every corner of Skyrim like a tidal wave smothering a drowning sailor lost in the Sea of Ghosts.

...

She'd been in the dank, filthy cell for days now, and was almost entirely convinced that this ordeal was not a dream after all. Everything felt far too vivid: the gnawing hunger in her stomach, the scratch of thirst at her throat, the bruises from the guard's visit. He'd come in to check on her the morning after her imprisonment, trying to identify her as a spy or some nonsense, and she'd been sore and unhappy after a night on the cold stone, and had not been very cooperative. The "conversation" had ended with him grabbing her through the cell bars and slamming her face into said bars multiple times, because the guy was a clearly a goddamn nutjob.

She gingerly touched her cheek, wincing at the pain. This sucked. It was not at all how she imagined getting stuck in a video game would go. None of those daydreams involved asshole guards with anger management problems rearranging her face by means of prison bars.

"I can hear you fuming through the wall," said her fellow prisoner dryly.

"Mind your own business," she snapped, not exactly in a conversational mood. The guy was kind of annoying—needlessly snarky and very patronizing, which she could normally handle fine. But this...this was a special situation, and she was not in a great mood.

"You've got a good fire in you, eh?" he said cheekily. "Still mad about your little spat with the guardsman from the other day?"

She didn't answer, instead cupping her hands over her mouth to trap the warm air in her palms. Dungeons were freezing.

"Not much of a talker, are you? I'll talk for both of us, then, don't worry. We'll be fast friends in no time, I promise you this," said the prisoner. "Let me tell you a story from when I was a young boy. I was out on my family's farm hoeing the land to—"

"He rearranged my goddamn face. Of course I'm mad. Happy, now that you've been enlightened as to the reason behind my awe-inspiring rage?" she interrupted, if only to get him to stop blabbering at her. But a thought struck her, and she added, "What's his problem, anyway? Did he try and 'interrogate' you, too? Is your face the same shade of purple as mine?"

The prisoner chuckled—a deep, hearty rumble that sounded too jovial to be sincere, too natural to be anything but rehearsed. She was distinctly reminded of the instances when friends who wanted to copy her homework pretended to laugh at her jokes.

"Not quite. I think he has a soft spot for you."

"Fantastic," she groaned. "Then it must be because he's a fanatic bastard with a disgusting case of blind hero worship. I say I want to a kill a _fictional_ _character_, and he goes all apeshit..."

"What do you mean by that?"

She huffed. "Nothing. None of your business."

"We're both trapped in the same dungeon—we're each other's business now," he replied easily. A couple seconds ticked by in silence, but then his voice dropped to a whisper and he said, "Listen, if we work together, we can escape this place. I don't know about you, but I sure as Talos don't like being trapped in a cell day and night."

The annoyed expression dropped from her face, replaced by intrigue. She'd, of course, been contemplating escape as well. It wasn't as if _all_ the hours had passed by in dazed confusion, trying to rationalize the situation and reaffirm her own sanity. No, she had watched the guards come and go, making a rough schedule in her head of their shifts. A very rough schedule, mind you. It was difficult to determine the exact times when there was one tiny slot in the wall that brought in light and dark (and fresh air, which was nice, and cold, which was not as nice).

"You got a plan?" she asked.

"I can get us both out of our cells, no problem, but getting past the entire town guard is a different matter," he said. "And you don't really seem to be the sneaky type."

"You aren't wrong there." She could play hide-and-go-seek as well as the next guy, but she had no actual experience creeping around places like some RPG assassin. Which, now that she thought about it, this guy might be. In fact, if she was really in Skyrim, she might be talking to a Dark Brotherhood agent, for all she knew. "Hey, why are you in here?"

"Thieving. You?" he answered, wary of the sudden change of topic.

She tried to be a little less blunt, but ended up with: "Crazy guard. Are you with the guild?"

So sue her, she wasn't very subtle.

He paused a few seconds before answering: "What's it to you?"

She perked up a little. She was probably talking to an actual NPC from the Thieves Guild! This was much better than kneeling at Ulfric goddamn Stormcloak's feet. "Just wondering. What's your name?"

The prisoner laughed. "If you think I'm telling you that, then you're the crazy one. Not the guard fellow."

"Fine, I'll guess, then." Too excited to really think better of it, she began rattling off names: "Brynjolf? Actually, no, I doubt it, you haven't said 'lass' once. Hmm...you don't sound like Delvin. And I doubt those two would get caught anyway. Rune, maybe? Cynric? Niru-whatever? Thrynn?"

There was stone-cold silence. Oh, yeah. She might actually be in Skyrim, and not just a dream-hallucination that didn't have consequences. Had she just revealed herself as a possible threat to one of the most corrupt entities in the country? Man, this whole ordeal was scarier when she realized it might actually be real. Yelling at Ulfric had been a lot easier.

"How do you know all that?" the prisoner demanded, his voice like frozen steel. "Who are you?"

"I'm just a girl, you know, no big deal—uh, how about we get back to the escape plan?" she said nervously. "I suddenly realize I don't need to know your identity after all. Haha! Just kidding!"

"Tell me where you got that information, and maybe I won't need to step over to your cell and slit your throat," he threatened. "I have plenty of experience. I could have you bleeding out like a stuck pig within seconds, and the guards wouldn't even be able to tell that I'd picked the lock to either of our cells. I could make it look like suicide."

"Oh, you're totally Cynric," she blurted out, then winced a little. "Ah, fuck. Don't kill me. But, like, if you're Cynric, why are you still in here? You're literally a master jailbreaker."

"Each and every word that just came out of your mouth did nothing to persuade me from killing you," Cynric—it was totally Cynric—said sharply.

"I didn't get it from anyone, okay? I just know. And I'm not going to do anything to fuck with you guys, don't worry," she said in a placating manner.

"Forgive me for not trusting you."

She sighed. A beat passed as she thought about the best way to do this. "You know the guild's recent dry spell? I know the reason why. It's from the same source that gave me all the information on the members. If you get us out of Windhelm, then I will tell you _everything._ Deal?"

He scoffed, but took a few moments to mull it over. "Since I hold your future in my hands in regards to this agreement, we have a deal."

At that moment, steel-clad footsteps thundered down the stairs to the prison, effectively ending their discussion.

"The name's Cynric," he murmured reluctantly, just before the door to the room creaked open. "You were right."

Hell yeah she was.

...

"You need to cause some sort of distraction while I make contact with my people. One of them should be arriving in Windhelm tonight, and they can arrange transportation for our escape."

"What kind of distraction?" she asked apprehensively.

Cynric sighed wearily. "Well, you're going to need to distract Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist. They're the reason why I cannot simply sneak out of this place—it's too dangerous to risk getting their attention. If Galmar was off managing the troops like he usually is, it wouldn't be as difficult. But as it stands, Galmar is Ulfric's watch dog, and a good one, at that."

"So you're literally throwing me to the dogs? How the hell am I supposed to make a distraction without getting myself killed?"

"To be honest with you, I had originally planned on leaving you behind to die after you had served your purpose," Cynric admitted, which, well, was not that much of a surprise. There had been, after all, no apparent reason for him to help her except honor or something, and she didn't believe in honor. Rightly so, it seemed. "Now, though, I need you alive. You know about the threat to the guild."

"Right you are!" she said cheerfully. "So, you need to help me come up with a distraction plan that won't get me killed, Mr. Cynric. I'm sure you have something in mind, since you've done this a billion times before."

"We'll talk later," he said quickly as the door to the prisons opened.

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, thinking up possible plans in her head. However, she had barely had time to come up with a rough idea of plan number one (somehow seduce Galmar) before the guard plodded over to her cell and fixed her with a faceless stare.

"Are you prepared to confess your true purpose in Windhelm, now?" the guard hissed, his steely tone still quite apparent, even through the muffle of his helmet.

Oh, great. It was the original asshole. "I don't have a purpose here, buddy, besides wanting to get the fuck out," she said scathingly. "Leave me the fuck alone already."

"You cannot hide behind filthy words from me," he said, and stepped closer to the bars. She hastily shrank back, not wanting him to mess up her face even more. "I will know your true motives, wretch. Who sent you to this city?"

"Jesus Christ! I have no motives!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

"Jesus Christ is the one who sent you? Tell me, what mission did his scoundrel order you on?"

"For the love of God," she groaned.

The guard reached for the keys jangling on his waist strap, and she backed up to the very corner of her cell in fright. If this guy was coming in there to, to _torture _her, or, _rape_, then—

"Who are you?" the guard questioned, slamming the cell door open. He slowly drew a dagger from his boot, and a chill ran down her spine. "If you would like, the information can be extracted."

"I'm literally just a random girl, please don't hurt me, I have zero pain tolerance, oh my God," she rambled, eyeing the sharp point of the dagger fearfully.

His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing her roughly by the wrist, and he dragged her out of the cell, throwing her to the floor. She gave a yelp as her bruised face slammed against the hard stone, the collision sending jarring pain throughout her system. The guard took hold of her hair and lifted up her head, forcing into view the various _medieval_ _torture_ _instruments_ in the prison.

"Wow, no, please don't do that," she said, words coming out rapid-fire and jumbled. "I am no one of importance, mean no harm to you or your city or Ulfric or whatever, if you torture me it'll just be an awful experience for both of us because I'll be screaming really grossly the whole time, so don't do that, torture is bad, you are violating the Universal Declaration of Human Rights _for sure _right now—"

The guard didn't listen. He forced her to stand and shoved her toward that rectangular contraption she'd seen in the game that looked a little bit like a washboard. It was covered in blood. Oh fucking God. She turned to look at Cynric, a desperate expression on her face, but he was merely watching, not even a hint of concern or sympathy on his face. In fact, he looked as though he was totally down for the plan, because _right_, he probably thought the guard would wrangle the information that Cynric needed from her. Fuck him. Fucking asshole.

Clearly, she couldn't trust anyone.

The guard took her arms. She broke out into a cold sweat. "Don't do this. Seriously, please don't do this. Oh my God. Oh my God. No, no, no. This is real. I'm actually in Skyrim, in a _goddamn_ video game, and I'm about to be _tortured_—Fucking hell, if only I had console commands right now, I could just—"

A translucent black screen appeared in the bottom of her vision, just like in the game.

"What the fuck," she breathed. The panic drained out of her, though the guard was now beginning to strap her to the instrument. "What. The Fuck. TGM."

The throbbing pain from her bruises vanished. She no longer felt tired, hungry or thirsty. In fact, she was completely invigorated. She felt like she had all the energy in the world, like she had just woken up from a long, satisfying nap, and was ready to take on the universe.

The guard jumped back in shock. "By the Divines! W-witch!" he cried, drawing his sword.

She grinned. Her heart had slowed to its normal, steady thump, and her head had cleared. She could use console commands. She had activated godmode. She was in Skyrim, and she could use console commands.

_She could do anything._

"Windhelm guard," she said, and focused on him, because she certainly didn't have a neat little mouse to click on and select him. An ID number popped up at the top of the screen, just like in the game. He charged at her, but the glint of his blade brought no fear to her this time.

"Kill."

He dropped dead.

He literally _dropped dead_—just crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. No painful, writhing heart attack, or even so much a gasp of surprise. Just—dead. Instantly.

She threw up right as Cynric broke out of his cell.

...

Scouts-Many-Marshes had experienced silence before. He had experienced a room of bustling discussion drop, very suddenly, to a hushed quiet. He had experienced the silence of a young hatchling's cries trailing off, ended by a frigid chill and empty bellies. He had experienced the hollow quiet ringing in his ears as he finally accepted that some things would not change, and family would not come back from the dead, no matter how much you wished they would.

But he had never, ever experienced silence like this.

Windhelm, no matter how cold and dreary, was always bustling with some sort of noise, whether it be the marketplaces during the day, the taverns ringing with song in the evening, the soldiers joking amongst each other throughout their shifts. The docks were loud, and the gentle lull of the sea could always be heard even if no one was working.

The docks were empty now. The workers and sailors had filed into the city, looking around in abject horror.

Dead. Every single person in Windhelm was dead.

Not three minutes earlier, the alarm horn had been sounded, and the dock guards had rushed into the city, weapons drawn. Panicked shouts settled heavy into the air, before everything went silent at once. The clattering of weapons, the thud of bodies dropping to the floor—then nothing. A silence beyond any other silence he had ever experienced before.

Scouts-Many-Marshes looked around at the corpses, feeling bile rise in his throat. What could have possible done this? What could have killed so many people at the same time in a split-second, with no apparent cause of death? He shuddered. It must have been daedra, or something equally monstrous. By the Hist—this was the worst sight he had ever seen.

The sound of retching filled the air. He felt sick. He had never imagined this as being the first time he would step into the city: amidst a sea of corpses, the citizens and guards all snuffed of life like a pinched candle flame. The weather was what he'd imagined for a first visit, at least. It was sunny, blues skies, not a cloud in sight, _warm _for once, which in his mind, would have signaled a new dawn for the Argonians down by the docks, new lives away from Nord prejudice. And in a sense, it did. All the racist residents of the city were dead.

But even with the sun beating down on his back, he didn't feel warm. Scouts-Many-Marshes was as cold as ever.

...

The tale of the incident at Windhelm spread through Skyrim like wildfire. Nearly an entire city dead in a heartbeat, with only three people to tell the tale of what had happened and one of them comatose. The war effort, now headed by Galmar Stone-Fist, had diminished greatly with the death of Ulfric Stormcloak, the fall of Ysarald Thrice-Pierced and the elimination of a major Stormcloak city. Windhelm was in disarray; the Hall of the Dead was filled with dead men, while the Dunmer bodies had been haphazardly tossed into the river, carried out to the Sea of Ghosts. The Argonians, though at last welcomed into the city, had refused to take up residence, and most had made the journey from Windhelm to Riften, seeking to escape the cloud of death that hung over the city. Windhelm was thus empty, excepting for the few soldiers who still held down the city against Imperial invasion.

Skyrim swelled with horrified rumors of who or what was responsible for the horrific tragedy. The stories ranged from divine interference smiting the Stormcloaks to a vicious, chance attack by a daedric prince. However, the truth behind the calamity was as evasive as the thief who was said to have bore witness to the entire happening, and so Skyrim remained in the dark, blistering with worry over what was the most shocking disaster in centuries.

_"The Thalmor. An act of war by the Aldmeri Dominion. A conspiracy by the Empire. A daedric plot, like the Oblivion Crisis,"_ came the whispers in taverns and inns across the nation. And another rumor, more unbelievable than the others, originating from an Argonian who had hung himself the night after the decimation: _"It was all just by a girl. The birth of a god."_

"The birth of a god," came the whisper from Aule, grinning into her mug, the black screen cutting across her view of the innkeeper. "I like that—I like that _a lot_. Oh_-ho_, this is gonna be _so _fun."

* * *

END

Thanks for reading! Please review/follow/fave if you enjoyed it~


	2. a torn banner

Also posted at AO3! /works/1621490/chapters/3456767

Thank you for your support! Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy! If you have any feedback, I'm super open to constructive criticism.

Side note: I have no clue where Frorkmar came from, he completely just wrote himself (as did Cynric last chapter). The whole story is just taking me places I never planned, but I'm having a lot of fun with it.

* * *

CHAPTER 1

_a torn banner_

...

It had to be a god.

It just had to be a god—for obvious reasons, of course. And she wasn't going to name herself Zeus or Venus or Quetzalcoatl, or something equally ridiculous. No, no. It had to be dignified and meaningful and not extremely pretentious.

Thus, Lord of the Rings. She settled on Aulë mainly because it wasn't exhausting to say and also because he had basically _shaped the world_, which just. So cool. She may have been a bit giddy throughout the whole naming herself process.

_(_And, fine, maybe she wasn't a man, and maybe she had no clue about crafting things, but damn if she would not be just as powerful and awesome.)

Then, remove to accent on the "ë" to blend in with the rest of the Tamrielic names and bam! Radical new name for a radical new identity. She wasn't just going to walk around with some normal human name, after all. Maybe there should have been wistful nostalgia over parting with the name she had carried for so many years, but she was still riding the wave of delight at her most impossible dream coming true, and hadn't really cared that much about parting with a simple name.

It had been getting worn out anyways.

...

The first thing Aule had done upon gleefully hightailing it out of Windhelm was yell, "COC Nightgate Inn Cellar!" and find herself in a completely different location in the span of a blink, as if she had been in a coma for decades and woken up with the world transformed around her.

She stole approximately twelve (three, actually) empty journals, as well as a quill and ink pot, from the Orc who lived in the basement. Then, she had flung herself on the bed, relishing in the feeling of the sweet, sweet fabric comforter—it was no Tempur-Pedic, but it sure as hell beat a filthy dungeon floor—and frantically scribbled down every single console command she could remember.

(She may or may not have spilled copious amounts of ink on the bed while attempting to figure out how the hell to use a quill.)

Aule was busy trying to remember which cheat changed people's attitude toward you when the aforementioned Orc opened the door to his room, demanded, "What in Divines are you doing in here?" and she'd sort of panicked and screamed, "Orc! Kill!" and then he'd dropped dead.

So. That whole situation nicely summed up her time in Skyrim so far.

The thing was, after that initial "Holy fuck I just killed someone" phase had worn off, she had realized she was in a _video game._ Clearly, despite how it was technically her new reality, nothing was actually real. Everyone in Windhelm she'd unintentionally murdered by shouting, "Kill all!" while surrounded by soldiers in the courtyard of the Palace of the Kings weren't actually real people. They were video game characters. She was the only _actual_ human being.

And after convincing herself of that, nothing really bothered her. None of the killing, anyway.

Still, that didn't mean she was just going to hang out in a room with a dead body in it.

"Disable," she said flippantly, and the corpse disappeared. The ID number was still hovering at the top of the command screen, and she scribbled "Nightgate orc 00038C6F" on a new page in case she ever wanted to bring him back.

Then, Aule happily continued writing down console commands, a bubble of giddiness tingling in her stomach and expanding with every stroke of ink.

She stayed in the cellar of Nightgate Inn for hours, jotting down everything she could remember and writing small descriptions next to them. She spent roughly an hour using the "help" command to search for the IDs of various objects, then compiling a list of those in another notebook. At one point, she had said " 0000000f 1,000" and ended up covered in shiny gold pieces, the clink of metal echoing throughout the room as she delightedly scooped coins into a backpack she found in the corner of the room.

Upon getting bored of being cooped up in the room and deciding that she had basically written down everything she remembered, Aule hoisted the now ridiculously heavy backpack over her shoulders and climbed out of the cellar through the trap door. The frosty evening was bright with thousands of shining stars, the white snow gleaming in the pale moonlight. She was still dressed in the same manner she had arrived—orange cotton pajama shorts, a thin black tank top, and no shoes—and marveled at how the frigid wind felt like a caressing sea breeze on her bare skin, how the crisp crunch of snow beneath her feet felt like walking on a plush carpet.

She strolled under the darkening sky to the front of Nightgate Inn, where the pier jutted out into Lake Yogrim. A sense of wonder overcame her. She was really, truly in Skyrim. She could explore the land to her heart's content: delve into Dwarven ruins and see the luminous giant mushrooms of Blackreach, climb to the Throat of the World and feel the hum of the time wound surrounding her, sleep in the towering trees of Falkreath with the warm summer haze settling heavy in the air. She could do all this, do _anything _without worry or inhibition or the pressure of the future tugging at her ankles because her future was _nothing._

Aule grinned, suddenly breathless, and began sprinting toward the rippling waters of Lake Yogrim, lighter and happier than ever before, until her feet carried her off the wooden boards and she was sailing through the air, tumbling under the water, laughing as she realized she didn't even haveto _breathe_ anymore.

She was utterly, wholly free.

...

"Who in the Oblivion was she?" Galmar Stone-Fist roared, slamming his fists onto the hardwood table. He splayed his palms across the worn map of Skyrim, urging himself to forget the countless hours that Ulfric and him had spent in this room, planning their revolution, the thrill of _righteous_ness pulsating through his veins, because this was _their_ land, _damn_ it—

But Ulfric was gone. Dead. And so was most of Windhelm.

All because of one goddamn girl, and her little thief man. He could still see them, slamming open the door to the barracks and charging into the throne room without abandon. The girl had dark hair and was filthy from days in the dungeon, her clothes a torn mess, but her eyes burned with an odd energy that he'd never seen from prisoners. Even the man beside her seemed weary, his grip on his sword sloppy from exhaustion. The man had dashed straight for the two guardsman posted at the doors, engaging them in a bold battle of fluid movements and cheap tricks, but not quite reaching the slick footwork of an assassin—a thief for sure. Meanwhile, the girl had walked calmly up to Ulfric as he rose from the throne and grinned at him, all bizarrely white teeth, and said, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Kill."

And then he was dead.

And moments later, he was not.

A chill ran up Galmar's spine, and he shook the memory from his mind. He could not, he _would not_—he had seen truly horrific things in his lifetime, but nothing so unnatural as what had happened mere hours ago.

"Sir?" a voice came from the entrance to the war room.

Galmar paused. Steeled himself. "Come in."

A soldier walked in and saluted him: one fist over his heart, a nod of the head. _My life is yours_. Galmar tilted his head in response. "Your report, soldier."

"Sir, we've interviewed every citizen that is still—still alive," the soldier reported. Very abruptly, Galmar recognized him. Wunstaag was his name. He was a farm boy from down south, in Falkreath. He had burst into the Palace half-dead from frostbite, clutching a bloody iron sword like prayer beads, and declared that he was a true son of Skyrim, that he would gladly die for the cause.

He was one of the few soldiers still alive.

"None of the dock workers know who she is, or where she came from," Wunstaag continued. "One Argonian said he rescued her from the White River, but there was no hint as to her origin, excepting that she was floating on a large object made of a material he'd never seen before."

"What happened to the object?"

"It's gone now, sir. The Argonian said it floated down the river and into the Sea of Ghosts."

"Damn," Galmar growled. "And the guardsman who brought her in?"

"He was the one in the dungeon, sir."

Dead, then. Galmar scoffed. Of course. They had no leads now, except...

"The thief?"

"He's long escaped. We've sent a courier to Riften to notify the guards there, tell them to watch out for any suspicious travelers coming into the city. If he's returning to the guild, we'll find him."

It never was easy. Galmar turned back to the war table, tracing the path of the White River. It was impossible to tell where the mysterious girl could have come from. The river spanned half of Skyrim, and was connected to dozens of smaller rivers and streams. And Divines knew if that would help them tell where she had disappeared to.

"Sir?"

"What is it, soldier?"

"I know it's not my place to say, but...should you not be resting? You were wounded as well, sir."

"It's called healing magic, soldier," Galmar barked harshly. "Go and make sure the tales of this girl do not spread. We cannot have the entire country knowing that Ulfric was killed by a _child._"

"...Yes, sir."

Wunstaag hurried from the room. Galmar waited one, two, three beats, then collapsed into a chair and clumsily uncorked a healing potion. The thief had done a number on him, thrusting a sword through his abdomen, and the wound still pained him. He drank the concoction greedily, sighing at the coil of warmth that unfurled in his chest.

Then, he rose, and yelled for another soldier. He had to arrange for the burial of the dead, create a team to search for the girl, check in on the survivors...

Galmar took a deep breath. There was much to be done, but he would not give in. He would not let their cause die.

"Have these delivered to High Hrothgar immediately. If the Greybeards choose not to involve themselves in this matter upon reading their letter, then perhaps the new Dragonborn will."

...

Aule marched up the snowy hill to the golden structure gleaming in the moonlight, balancing the blade of the ebony dagger she had procured with console commands. At first she had given herself a sword, but after discovering she was fairly unable to lift the damn thing with one hand, much less wield it properly, she settled for a dagger. Not that she knew how to use a dagger either, or even needed one, but it felt pretty cool to be strutting around with a sleek, lethal knife in her hand.

In any case, she learned a valuable lesson: Godmode made her invincible, but it didn't actually change her physical strength. On the other hand, it did seem to give her an endless supply of energy, and she no longer had basic human needs—it had been approximately 14 hours since she had ate or drank anything, and even longer since she slept, and she felt fucking fan_tastic_.

Letting out an excited whoop as she approached the Great Lift at Alftand, Aule pressed her fingertips reverently to the cool Dwarven metal. The enormous, cage-like elevator loomed magnificently before her, and she couldn't help but feel she was standing in front of St. Peter's Basilica, or Notre Dame, even though the structure wasn't nearly as large or as grand as the famous churches. But the exhilarating rush of awe was the same, the surge of disbelief because how was this _possible_, this was hundreds, _thousands_ of years of history right before her eyes.

Suddenly, cold fear gripped her, and she became terrified of what was awaiting her down the lift. All it would take to reach the most wondrous place in Skyrim was a simple "unlock" from her lips, and she'd be there. She'd be in Blackreach, where a civilization thrived and enslaved and perished and held discussions in the Debate Hall and built a make-believe sun above their bustling city. She'd be surrounded by giant glowing mushrooms and creatures that weren't real until three? four? five? days ago. She'd be hopelessly alone in a cavern of ancient history, and she may have all the power in the world now, but _damn it, _she had always been afraid of the dark, but most of all she didn't want to feel so _small_—

Aule turned away from the Great Lift and looked down at the snowy earth. She had no obligation to go to Blackreach. She could do anything now. This was an open world game. She was the player character. She was free to change her mind all she wanted.

"I'm not afraid. I just don't feel like it, that's all," Aule muttered to herself. "I'm not in the mood. Fuck this. Tcl."

She walked through the heavens toward Dawnstar, each step on the invisible floor grounding her—even though she was floating among the stars.

...

Okay, so she had a little freak-out at the Great Lift of Alftand. Whatever. No biggie. Walking through the sky—the sky! it had been too dark for her to really see the landscape sprawled out beneath her, but it still been hella cool—had cleared her head, and she felt significantly better now. With the light chatter and gentle lute-playing of the Windpeak Inn surrounding her, Aule exhaled softly, relaxed, bathing in the warmth of the fire behind her.

(Freedom. It was incomprehensible. She had thought it would be liberating, calming. Instead, she had been alone and scared. Without the guidance of her world's expectations, what was she to do? She needed time to adjust.)

She sat by herself at a table for a while, covered from head to toe in leather armor (0003619E body armor, 00013920 boots, 00013921 bracers, 00013922 helmet, she scratched messily into the notebook) and nursing a cup of warm milk. She sure as hell wasn't in the mood for that sickly sweet-smelling mead the bartender had suggested (it was morning, for God's sake!), and she didn't exactly have access to the orange juice she was craving. Plus, it was kind of hilarious to be a literal milk-drinker.

So, sipping her milk, her old clothes packed in a knapsack she'd stolen from the Orc in the cellar, leather armor chafing her practically fucking _everywhere_, Aule closed her eyes and enjoyed the cozy atmosphere—

When a giant of a man sat down beside her, his weight causing the wooden bench to creak with stress.

"Good evening," he said cheerfully, taking a swig from his mug. Oh, God. Who the hell drank liquor in the morning? The slosh of alcohol made her stomach churn.

Right, so, she might have lied a bit about her reasons for drinking milk. She actually just couldn't stand liquor. Not for any particular reason—she just hated the smell, and couldn't handle it. The one time she had tried to drink alcohol, she'd gotten wasted and almost stumbled off a goddamn cliff. After that, the smell of alcohol faintly reminded her of _dying_, so, yeah, she wasn't all that fond of it.

"Hi," she replied carefully, tucking her face behind her cup. She eyed the man from the corner of her eye, taking in his bear claw cloak and fur armor, as well as the sharp axe strapped to his belt. His dusty brown hair looked almost golden in the firelight, and the sloppily trimmed beard drew attention to his strong jaw line. He was pretty handsome, she thought. He was also super old. The bulging muscles and tan, youthful pallor did nothing to hide the wrinkles around his eyes, the aged wisdom thrumming in the grey orbs.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're wearing your armor a bit strangely," he said, not unkindly. "First time out in the world, eh?"

Aule snorted. "Yeah. You can say that again."

The man gave her a puzzled look, but dutifully repeated, "First time out in the world, eh?"

"It's an expression," she said, and rolled her eyes. "You don't actually have to say it again. Also, can you stop drinking that stupid mead or whatever? It smells like shit."

The man regarded her for a couple of moments, then burst into laughter. "You're pretty odd, girl! Who says such rude things to strangers?" He shoved his mead across the table, waving his hand toward it pointedly. "But if it bothers you so much, I'll quit my drinking. I would much rather have an interesting dining companion."

"Oh. Uh, thanks, I guess," Aule said, a little surprised. That was damn considerate of him. "So, what's your name, o' dining companion?"

"Frorkmar Banner-Torn," he said, and smiled. "And yours?"

Oh my God, _Frorkmar. _That was the most goddamn ridiculous name she'd ever heard. Aule smothered a laugh, and said, "I'm Aule. Nice to meet you."

It just occurred to her she didn't have a surname. Maybe she'd make up a badass title for herself later.

"The pleasure is mine," he said amiably. Then, Frorkmar (hah! Everyone in Skyrim had such dumb names) gestured at her getup and asked, "Now, I hope you take no offense to my words, but I must ask: How is it that you make it to Dawnstar with your armor strapped all wrong? The nearest settlement is a day's travel, at least, and a carriage hasn't come to town in nearly a week."

Aule shrugged. "I didn't really run into many problems. And I may not know how to put on armor properly, but I'm a lot more powerful than you think I am, buddy." She grinned a little too widely. Then, a thought struck her. "But you seem like you know your way around the whole fighting stuff. Am I right?"

Frorkmar chuckled. "Aye, you could say that."

Bingo. She hadn't recognized him from the game, but that didn't mean he couldn't be an impromptu skill trainer. Perhaps there were non-game characters floating around, then. Which would completely make sense, as she didn't think an entire country could run on a population of 700 named characters, and then randomly spawning outlaws. Yeah, she was pretty sure that wasn't how it worked.

"Do you think you'd have time to show me a few tricks? I'll pay you. Very well," Aule offered, and jingled her bulging coin purse. Seriously. She would pay him _very well_. She had literally a _limitless_ supply of money, and she did not give a single fuck whether she caused inflation all Mansa Musa style by distributing enormous amounts of gold everywhere.

"Your gold is not necessary. I'm always willing to help out an aspiring warrior," Frorkmar said, stroking his beard and appraising her as if he figuring out training techniques already. Probably was. "The only payment I require is a story—what brings you to Dawnstar, girl?"

Oh, yes. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. She was going to make up the most tragic, awesome back story for herself ever.

"Well, it all started when I was...abandoned in the deserts of Elseweyr by my parents. A Khajiit family found me and raised me as their own, but they were secret conspirers against Aldmeri Dominion," Aule began, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "The Thalmor came into our home when I was a child, and—and killed my family and siblings in front of me." Here, she paused, acquiring a pained look in her eyes. "I couldn't stay in Elseweyr, so I traveled to Hammerfell, where I stayed and trained as a blacksmith. A kind man named, uh, Lee, took me in. We decided to go to...Solstheim, after a couple of years, to find and craft stalhrim. Which is why I'm so far north, in Dawnstar. But back a couple days, he was killed by...by necromancers."

She finished by taking a deep breath and looking away, blinking quickly as if she were holding back tears. "I've decided to go onto Solstheim without him, but first, I need to learn to fight! All my life other people have taken care of me, and now I need to take care of myself."

Bam. She was fucking awesome. Her story may have been a little unlikely, but honestly, who the hell could possibly prove she was lying? Certainly not Frorkmar, who was staring at her with wide eyes, caught between disbelief, bafflement and sympathy.

Alright, she'd give the guy a break. That was a pretty big lie to take in.

"So, there's your payment. When can we start training?" Aule said excitedly, bouncing in her seat.

"We may go now, if you're ready. There's never a better time to spar than early in the morning, I'd say," Frorkmar responded instantly.

She had to give the guy some credit: He seemed to be nothing if not unshakable.

"Oh yeah, I'm so ready. Let's do this!" Aule declared. She chugged down the rest of her milk, then stood up dramatically and threw down a handful of gold coins on the table. "That's your tip, innkeeper guy!"

Frorkmar followed her whirlwind of movement out of the inn, laughing boisterously as she tripped out the door, catching herself on the wooden railing of the porch. He patted her on the head as she collected herself, huffing, and said, "Follow me, girl!"

The two of them trekked through the snow, following the path out of town and then veering right to an open expanse of white ground. The morning sun hung low in the sky, its gentle rays shrouded by grey wisps of cloud. The air was cool on her skin, and the snow tucked into the crevices of her boots felt oddly refreshing, as if she were dipping her feet into the clear waters of a tropical beach.

"Are you not cold?" Frorkmar asked, giving her a curious glance.

"Nope," she said.

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "For one who lived all her life in the desert, you fare well in the snow."

Inconsistency number one, check. Nice one, Aule.

"Desert nights are chilly," she said airily. "So, what are you gonna teach me?"

"Firstly, I think we'd better get that armor strapped on properly," he said. "Then, we'll build off what you already know. What weapons are you familiar with?"

"Um, I have this dagger?" Aule said, and took the ebony blade from its sheath, waving it around a little. "I mean, you just, like, stab and slash and shit, right?"

"The blacksmith—Lee, was it?—did not teach you to wield a single blade you forged?" Frorkmar said incredulously.

"I mean, no. Not really." Aule shrugged. "What can I say? I had a huge, uh, Redguard with giant biceps and a curved sword to guard me. Didn't need to fight anyone myself."

Frorkmar shook his head, a smile tugging at his pale lips. "I suppose you've a lot to learn then, girl."

...

And so began what she referred to as "basic training." Each morning, she'd head out to the field with Frorkmar and learn to fight—okay, that was being a bit generous. More like get smacked around and run through exercises that made her feel like she was doing tai chi. Swordsmanship was, to put it bluntly, annoying as hell. It took so much concentrationand fancy footwork and was pretty goddamn frustrating because she was as weak as a limbless dinosaur next to Frorkmar, who kind of had huge, monstrous strength. On the plus side, he was really nice: He was always jovial, encouraging and patient—and she meant _always_.

("'Morning!" Aule called brightly to Frorkmar, who approached with axe in hand, clutching a piece of paper tightly in one fist. His face was clouded with a churning mixture of sorrow and rage, an expression she'd never seen on him before.

"What's up, man? Are you alright?" she asked as he neared, a little concerned.

"I've just received news of the events in Windhelm," Frorkmar said, settling on a flat boulder that substituted for a bench during their training sessions. Well, at least the one that had happened so far.

"Oh," Aule said. That was it. That's all she said. Nothing else came out. She wasn't actually adept at comforting people, especially since she didn't know why he was upset. Maybe he had family in Windhelm or something? If that was the case, she might start feeling a little bad about shouting "Kill all!" in the middle of the city. She liked Frorkmar. It was weird to see the normally sunny man so downtrodden.

"Skyrim is getting dangerous lately," he said, looking out into the rolling mist above the Sea of Ghosts. "I might have to return to Windhelm soon, so I will teach you all that I can quickly. That way, you may be prepared for the dangers out there."

Aule was fairly certain she was adequately prepared for the dangers out there, since she couldn't die at all. Obviously, she didn't say that, though.

"Thanks, Frorkmar. You're a good guy. I hope," she paused, feeling a little weird about saying this. After all, she knew perfectly well what Windhelm was like now: dead bodies littering the ground, icy wind ghosting through the empty town. "I hope whatever you find in Windhelm isn't too horrible."

He was normal for the rest of the morning, as merry as ever. Aule admired that about him: He at least had the sense not to let the deaths of some video game characters weigh him down.)

The best part about training, besides getting to wield a sword like a badass (or like a clumsy idiot. Personally, she preferred badass), was that she never became tired. Before being able to activate godmode, Aule had more or less zero stamina. Now, she was constantly full of energy, which she had explained by saying she had a "unique genetic disease where I don't sweat or get tired, and my heart rate's always the same during exercise. No clue who my parents are, so I don't know what the disease is. But it exists. I promise. Also, I know it's genetic because I just do. I swear."

Not her greatest lie, but she wasn't sure that Frorkmar actually believed her crazy back story either, so clearly, she had nothing to lose.

After her training, they returned to the Windpeak Inn, where she would insist on treating him to lunch because she wasn't even paying for the lessons. And she had, again, _limitless _money. That thought always made her feel warm and cozy inside.

During those lunchtimes, Aule learned that although she was never hungry, she could still eat and drink. Where the consumables went, she had no clue, because she never had to use the bathroom, either. She also learned that Frorkmar was the first of three boys, and their parents had been killed in a bandit raid at a young age, so it fell upon Frorkmar to take care of his little brothers. He was from Falkreath, and left once his two brothers had grown up and found their own paths. At this moment, he was 50 years old, my God, he was as old as her father.

(One lunchtime, about four days into their training sessions, Frorkmar had presented her with a finely crafted steel scimitar, grey eyes dancing with amusement. She'd hugged him, taken the sword with laughter still spilling from her lips, because that had completely just confirmed that he knew she was a boldfaced liar, and presented him with an ebony war axe of the highest quality, as in she'd procured it with console commands and then asked the blacksmith to sharpen it. When he asked where she got it from, she cheekily replied, "I forged it, of course!"

Since that morning, he'd been even kinder and more open, which she hadn't thought was possible. He'd willingly building a snow fort with her the next day and engaged in an epic snowball fight. Which she lost. By a lot.

It was a little weird that they'd become such fantastic friends so quickly, but in the game you could get married after doing a favor for someone, so hey, why not?)

After lunch, they parted ways, with Frorkmar weaving throughout the town of Dawnstar and Aule marching off into the wild. Usually, she ended up yelling "tcl" and climbing high up in the sky, settling amidst the clouds and enjoying the soft spray of moisture against her skin. The wind whistled more than howled up there, and the pure, brilliant white splayed out beneath her made her feel like she was in heaven, where solitude was a comfort and a choice, not a burden, where she could watch over the people of Dawnstar scramble about the town, mere dots instead of real beings. Often she'd talk out loud to herself about nothing in particular, or write stories with her lips, carried away on the wind to a distant set of ears. She'd whisper secrets she had collected throughout the years: secrets of her own, of her friends in a vanished world, of characters from televisions and books and games. She'd say the story of every individual in Skyrim that she could remember, all dictated in an imaginary letter to no one.

Sometimes, Aule would dive into the Sea of Ghosts, allowing the violent waters to carry her wherever they so wished. She'd watch strange creatures (a flash of teeth, a warped limb, an orb pulsing bright blue) appear before her eyes, then disappear so quickly she had to wonder if they were actually just a construct of her mind. Often, she'd see a skeleton, or a corpse, sweeping through the currents like a whirlwind, and at one point she'd even seen a live man, reaching for her with twitching fingers, before the torrent of water had sent him tumbling away.

The water, the air—instead of filling her lungs with twisted pressure, beating down on her body with the force of a thousand disasters as they should—calmed her, made her movements languid and relaxed, cleared her mind of any troubled musings. They gave her a freedom that wasn't all-consuming, like when she had been faced with the frightening depths of Blackreach, but absolutely _satis_fying, and it felt like even nature was trying to please her.

Aule spent her mornings being happily human, but the rest of the time—she was something far beyond that.

...

"You've heard, of course, of the tragedy in Windhelm," Frorkmar said to her one morning as they sat side-by-side on the rock bench. "And all the rumors of what happened."

"Yep," Aule said, chewing a sweet roll. Just last night she had sat at the inn's bar, hearing whispers about the birth of a god, about an Argonian and a thief, about a whole town smote by divine powers. It had sent a shiver of glee up her spine, and she'd grinned uncontrollably upon hearing that phrase: "the birth of a god."

"There is one particular story that struck me—the one that told of a single girl who had wiped out the entire city. That story is the one I most believe."

Aule nearly choked on her pastry. "That's weird," she said casually. "It sounds pretty fucking unbelievable, in my opinion."

"Aule," Frorkmar said seriously. And she could tell he was serious because he always just called her "girl," never by her name. He turned to her and place his huge paw of a hand on her shoulder, the warmth from his palm filling her with a sort of fondness. "I know you are that girl."

Hm, fondness gone. Anxiety setting in.

"Uh. Um. What?" she squeaked.

Aule tried to scoot away, but his grip on her shoulder tightened.

"Listen to me, Aule," Frorkmar continued evenly. "I am not angry with you, for I know the powers you possess. You may have killed them, but you can bring them back to life as well. Please, return to Windhelm with me and set things right. Fix the lives you have destroyed."

So, what the fuck. Okay, she wasn't going to pretend that it wasn't her because he seemed acutely convinced of the fact that it had been her. Which it had. He was not wrong. On the other hand: What the fuck.

"How do you know I'm the one who did this? And that I can resurrect people? What the fuck? How long have you been waiting to ask me this? How long have you known about this? Oh my God, what the hell?" Aule questioned at a rapid-fire pace.

"I received correspondence from a friend in Windhelm about your identity and your powers a few days ago. I wished to ask you immediately, but I was not sure you'd be open to the request," Frorkmar explained. He placed both hands on her shoulders now, and looked her steadily in the eye. "Please, friend. Return to Windhelm and revive those you killed. My brothers resided there."

"I...I guess I could resurrect the citizens," Aule said hesitantly. "I mean, they were more accidental casualties than anything else."

It was true. She hadn't really expected the "kill all" command to kill _everyone_ in the city. Not that she had really cared at the time, but she had kind of murdered her friend's family, so now she felt a bit guilty about that.

"And what of the guards and soldiers, and Ulfric Stormcloak? Will you bring them back to life as well?"

"Um, no. I killed them for a reason," Aule deadpanned. "They can stay dead."

Frorkmar adopted a disappointed look that made her feel like she was being lectured by her father. "They had families, Aule. Brothers and sisters, wives and children—and the Stormcloak cause will fall with the blow you delivered. It is only right to bring them back to life, bring Ulfric back to life, and put the Stormcloaks on equal footing with the Imperials once more."

She hated being lectured. She hated people older than her telling her what to do, all condescending and instructing and "do what's right. I'm very disappointed. I'm better than you, so you should listen to me."

"Frorkmar, buddy, pal. Listen. I don't like the Stormcloaks. I could not care less what happens to any of them. In fact, I would probably be pretty happy if they lost the war because they're assholes. And," Aule stopped abruptly, seeing the growing anger on Frorkmar's face. "You're a fucking Stormcloak, aren't you? That's who you are in the fucking game. I knew you weren't just some random NPC, you're the Stormcloak commander here, fucking Christ."

"You will not revive Ulfric?" Frorkmar demanded through gritted teeth, removing his hands from her shoulders. "You truly wish to see the Stormcloaks fail? I do not believe it."

Aule bristled. "Did you just pretend to be my friend? You helped me and, and hung out with me just to ask me to revive Ulfric _fucking _Stormcloak? Just so you can win your petty little war? No! No I won't resurrect him. And just because you're a dick, I'm not going to revive any of the other people I killed either! Windhelm can stay a dead, cold _waste_land—"

And that. That was when Frorkmar tried to cleave off her head with the ebony axe she had given him.

The axe lodged in her neck, and she felt it there, but it was not comfortable, and there was no pain. It was a cold weight in her jugular, but it at the same time, it was nothing. Frorkmar's eyes widened in horrified disbelief.

Then, she stabbed him in the stomach with the scimitar, the curved blade protruding through his abdomen and out his back. He keeled over and collapsed onto snow face-first, a slight gasp of pain escaping him.

"Fuck you!" Aule screamed, and ripped the ebony axe from her neck. She threw it onto the ground, watching his dark blood stain the beautiful layers of white around him. "You fucking bastard! I can't believe you just tried to stab me—I thought we were friends, you asshole, fuck you, you were so goddamn nice, what the fucking hell, Frorkmar?!"

"I was kind to you because I thought you deserved kindness, because I believe you might change your mind even now," Frorkmar said insistently, lifting his head to look pleadingly at her. "Bring them back to life! That's what is _honorable_. You are my friend, Aule, and I believe you are a good person. You _will_ do what is right."

Blood dribbled from his mouth, staining his pale lips a deep red. The sight of the blood—a stringent reminder that this was a real person, a video game character, she didn't even know anymore—turned her stomach.

"Oh, spare me the bullshit. Be real, you weren't actually my friend," Aule spat. Rage and hurt and _more fucking rage _were pounding in her skull, burning the soles of her feet, and she wanted to _crush his rib cage _beneath her heel.

"...You're right," Frorkmar hissed, his eyes suddenly aflame with loathing. His entire expression became hateful, deranged like a desperate madman. Her insides twisted at the sight. "You are an evil, disgusting wench drunk on power, and you do not deserve the kindness I pretended to show you, you killed my _family, _you killed _Ulfric_, you _killed my cause._"

Aule clenched her fists, her eyes as colder than she herself would ever feel again, but the fury burned hot in veins. She had never felt so pissed off and _betrayed _in her life. They'd given each other weapons! Wasn't that, like, the ultimate symbol of Nordic trust and brotherhood?

Clearly, honor meant nothing to the Stormcloaks. Ironic. _That's what is _honorable, Frorkmar said. Fuck him.

"No. I haven't killed your cause yet, but I'm fucking going to now. When the Stormcloak army is at its knees, begging me for mercy, whimpering as I cut each and every soldier down, they will have _you _to thank." Aule bent down and gripped his chin, looked into his eyes and said: "Frorkmar Banner-Torn. Kill."

She watched the life vanish from the swirling grey orbs. Five syllables and her only friend in Skyrim was dead. Her only friend, who actually was a backstabbing, fanatic Stormcloak asshole.

Fuck this shit.

She decided—she was fucking sick of the goddamn Stormcloaks, and their bullshit racism and fake friendship and all-around dickishness, and they were just fucking up Skyrim and causing chaos and weakening it and causing more trouble for the Empire which had to devote its resources to fighting Ulfric's dumbass civil war instead of preparing for battle against the stupid Thalmor and—

Aule took a deep breath. She was done with the Stormcloaks. She was going to _annihilate _them.

"Watch out assholes," Aule muttered under her breath, storming away from the cold corpse of Frokmar Banner-Torn. "The end is fucking near."


End file.
